


Eden Awaits Until Bridges are Mended.

by Gevar



Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 01:53:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10064261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gevar/pseuds/Gevar
Summary: They came with their witnesses and laws. They struck his coven without remorse or hesitations. They left him with so many titles Edward didn’t want.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A sort of AU, I guess. In which Edward ends up in the service of Volturi.

In the confines of his closet-bedroom, Edward Masen drops on his knees and prays for forgiveness that never arrives.

His throat parched and burns with internal flame of hunger. Saliva relieves none of the agony spreading to his body.

When day breaks into the high gothic windows of his room, Edward stands to his feet and washes himself in the Italian waters.

Mouldy mirror reflects golden irises now coal black. Dark rings lining beneath sharp eyes.

The door behind him opens, Aro descends into his meagre room, ruby eyes studying his bare room.

His thoughts, are no longer in English or any hint of modern language, resonates in Edward’s mind. Just wisps of a language dead before any of the Cullens were even born.

“I do hope you will add your touch to this room, Edward,” Aro sings, lips parting to a smile. He waves a hand, “Carlisle left his with his crosses and medical texts. He already made this place his in the matter of months. And you’ve been here for only a fraction of his.”

Edward folds his hands together, gold eyes cast demurely on the weathered granite walls.

“Yes, Master Aro.”

“Look at me, dear boy,” Aro commands, his smile is toothy and eyes harden with flighty concern.

Edward obeys his master’s command, hesitation absent from his body.

Aro holds Edward’s chin in between his translucent fingers, inspecting his face. Lips cracking a wide grin.

“Starving yourself for penance is not the way of our people. You must hunt, satiate that pain,” Aro clicks his tongue together, like a mentor would to admonish a foolish child.

“Ksenia will lead you to Demetri.”

Edward doesn’t question the order he’s given.

* * *

Little flaming fingers scratching against her throat. Her thirst creeping into her mind, clouding her sight with imaginary red. She rubs her ink-stained fingers against her neck. The relief she seeks remains elusive.

Marcus—her Master, it still feel strange to address the man in all reverence—spares her an inquiring glance with garnet eyes all lazed. “What is it that bothers you, dear child?”

Irina shakes her golden-hair into a dance of denial. Lips curling to hold a smile. Hopes her voice doesn’t crack as air leaves her mouth. “Nothing, Master.”

He dictates of the memories he shared with his dearest Didyme. Wishes of immortalising her in all forms, written, drawn and sung, seeps into the ancient vampire’s study. Reminding Irina of impossible second chances and her own sorrows of losing her sisters—her Laurent.

Part of her envies Marcus. For the blissful years he had with Didyme. That he remembers everything and forgets nothing of their dimmed coupling. But mostly Irina pities him. That he’s trapped in a cage of painful memories and unattainable death. Laurent’s demise sores her being, but not enough to leave her an empty shell.

Irina catches all the likeness of the woman who died and held her master’s fragile glass heart in her delicate ghostly fingers.

Usually, that is if her concentration isn’t marred by her thirst. The feather quill trembles underneath her fingertips, snaps and rolls across the scroll. Leaving a jagged trail of soot ink across the sixteen thousandth poem.

“When was your last feeding, Irina?”

Her name rolls out from his lips, all foreign and raspy. Irina flinches on reflex, effervescent of fear waiting to erupt for all her mistakes she accidentally committed.

“A few weeks ago, Master.”

“Then you should feed. Quench the thirst,” he says, finality rings faintly in his lifeless tone.

Her mind forms a careless reply, cracked lips murmuring, “I must decline the offer.” She runs a finger down her throat—up, down, up, down—to still, to scratch the flaring agony now engulfing her senses. She hopes Marcus has lost himself too deep to his sorrows, that his garnet eyes never meeting her obsidian black irises.

“Oh? You will not feed on humans,” his voice echoes against the dust-painted walls. A slender finger beckons his personal guard, Laura, who steps out from the shadows.

“Laura, bring our dear Irina to Felix, please.”

Irina learns not to protest.

* * *

He’s not Alice, a seer with erratic prophetic visions. But years of unfiltered and foreign thoughts invading his own mind hones Edward into a man with a foresight into predictability of mankind’s actions.

Mind reading is not Sight. That’s Edward Cullen’s _first_ mistake.

A lifetime of reading people’s thoughts do not make up for Sight.

Aro is a man with whimsical ideas of punishment. He strikes balance between cruel streaks of Caius and Marcus’ torturous mind.

Edward foresaw none of this when he stood in front of the Volturi triumvirate leaders, begged for an end to a lifetime of misery without his Bella.

Edward did not think the pale strange ancient immortal is dangerous, for all the thoughts Edward heard and with his family, in the snow-crusted ground, Edward did not fear Aro.

That’s Edward Cullen’s second and _fatal_ mistake.

The Volturi is anything, if not persistent and their punishments are always warranted.

Forever is never forever in a vampire’s vocabulary.

They came with their witnesses and laws. They struck his coven without remorse or hesitations. They left him with so many titles Edward didn’t want.

A second-time orphan. A widower. A brother without siblings. A father without his daughter.

But they didn’t leave him with his freedom intact.

Edward Cullen—last of the Cullens’ —is reborn once again, Edward Masen.

And Edward Masen is under the Volturi’s service.

* * *

When gold eyes met golden ones in the sacred hall where the triumvirate convened, Edward Cullen screamed, “Murderer! You filthy traitor!”

Irina barely flinched. Instead she stood there, flanked by other lesser guards. Impassive Irina.

Edward bared his teeth to sink into slender granite neck, hurled himself at the golden-haired immortal.

Felix restrained him, by slamming him against the thick Roman columns.

Edward escaped from the Roman’s clutches, lunged for Irina—Aro’s voice lingers only briefly, “Jane.”

Edward fell to his knees, hands merely inches away from his face—and pain burnt him, swallowed him inside bubbles made of fire and the twisting agony into his muscles.

Caius hissed, “He’s a liability, Aro. I can accept Irina because Marcus requested her. Him,” and pointed at accusing finger at Edward, “His coven tried to destroy us, with their werewolves.”

“I’m most certain that you’ll think of a great use of the Cullen’s talent,” Aro replied, waved a hand at Caius. His ruby eyes set on Edward and his lips twisting into a childish pout. “I don’t like to resort to such extreme actions, Edward. If you can’t calm down, I’m afraid Jane will have a joyous day to reinforce _some_ discipline into you.”

Edward didn’t act on his impulse once he’s released from Jane’s gift. He’s rigid, as though boa constrictor coiled itself around his body and not unleashing him to his wild anger.

Irina stood in front of him, her porcelain face free of any emotions. Her thoughts, English and scornful of him, of his family.

(He’ll get his revenge one day.)

Now these days, Edward doesn’t talk to the flaxen-haired traitor. Instead he nurses the festering hatred within his venomous veins.

She was a false witness. The law says she’s to be put to death. So, why is she still walking, under Volterra’s sun, its moon and its skies?

He doesn’t say the words churning in his mind, during a private audience with Aro.

Aro sees it all. His master dismissed his concern as if it’s a matter of choosing the right wallpaper. “I’m afraid that Irina is too valuable to my brother’s well being. Laura can only do so much, but she’s still a guard at the end of the day.”

“Irina here is much under the Volturi’s protection as you are,” Aro says, voice soft and feathery and a smile so nectarine sweet, “We do not attack one of our own, unprovoked and unwarranted. If Felix could adhere to that rule, then it should not be a problem to you. Isn’t that right, dearest Cullen?”

Edward nods. “Yes, Master.”

“Good.”

(It’s all the fault of his “cousin” Irina Markova of the Denalis. If only she hadn’t succumb to vengeance, he’d still have his wife, his daughter. His family.

Laurent is dead. Why can’t she let him go and live with her sisters?

His family’s gone. Irina’s to be blame. And Edward Masen will work to destroy Irina Markova no matter how long it takes him.

But for now, he plays nice and retains his snarl in his burning throat, lips curling into a strained smile. Hides the claws shaking to hook into the blonde woman’s flesh.

They have to hunt together after all. The only two golden-eyed immortals in the city of vampires with carnelian eyes.)

* * *

She’s not used to crimson eyes lacked of lust. Or familiar topaz eyes filled with black hate. Yet here she is, surrounded by them. 

Edward’s golden gaze seethes with hot fury. Irina understands the hate—she had a hand in the Cullen coven’s utter annihilation under the Volturi’s laws and cloaks. Honestly, they deserved it.

What was it about revenge, clergymen used to preach to Irina’s ignorant ears; dig two graves when one seeks revenge? Irina is not ashes the wind whisks away into the air. She’s very much tangible.

The Volturi sees that she doesn’t escape her dues. Her false accusation is still a crime. Irina hasn’t seen her sisters. Hasn’t hug Sasha’s daughters tight. It’s a silver lining in the cloudy mess she trapped herself with.

She’s a servant (a slave really) to Marcus of Volturi. She is still living another day, keep that hope alive in her somehow.

As for Edward, his fate lies in the hands of Aro and his mad mind.

The Cullen’s pride—holier than thou Edward—is now just another name in a long list of Aro’s latest little pets, built of the bones and flesh of gifted guards.  

Jane isn’t fond of Edward. Irina shares the sentiment.

He prances around the castle in his dirty grey cloak and Volturi crest fixed to his throat. The last of the Cullens now serves the very same man he called a monster of epic proportions.

Somewhere she thinks Carlisle would have rolled in his grave at the fate of his first creation. If only his body isn’t particles lost to the air and breeze.

“I think a hunt on the North should be fine, don’t you think so, Felix?” Demetri whistles, a trace of ancient Greek shines in his accent.

“The North. So many AB positives. Yum,” Felix retorts, grin broadens.

They walk through mazes hidden beneath the alleys of the town. Ahead of Edward and her, Demetri stops short before moss-blanketed gates.

“I thought I should warn you anyway,” Demetri mentions, lips parting to a sanguine smile and turns to face them, “We’re to accompany you two on a hunt. If you ever try to run, I will hunt you.”

Demetri points his chin at another guard. Her skin chalky with a tinge of olive and wavy dark brown hair hang loosely at her shoulders. She doesn’t smile, instead gives them a curt nod.

“Phoebe could outrun most of us,” he adds, his charming smile remains.

Felix’s grin is feral and fun all mashed into one. Santiago presses his lips into a thin line, beefy hands clasped behind his back.

The implication is not lost on either Edward or Irina. They’re encased in barrier made from Volturi guards.

“Shall we get going, before sunrise,” Felix quips, pushes the gates wide open with a flourish. It isn’t a question, but a slight instruction.

It’s when only Irina left to pass the gates, that Demetri leans into her ear and whispers in flawed rustic Slovakian, “If I were you, I’d be thinking in my native language. That way my thoughts are my own, without an extra listener,” ends with a cheeky wink.  

The freedom Irina tastes only exists if she closes her eyes, stops breathing scents of crystalline fleshes and drowns out the tiny noises made by stealthy marbled bodies.

Nonetheless the guards keep to themselves, allowing Irina and her sour-faced companion some distance.

There’s no talking between once cousins. Edward and his lips of sealed silence doesn’t bother her much.

They’ve never exchange anything than pleasantries. Not with Tanechka’s eyes glinting of curious desiderate of polite manners, looming at the corners of their Denali residence. And there are other human men more desirable than ginger-haired Edward Cullen.

Still, it doesn’t change the fact Edward is a mind reader. Demetri’s advice is solid, as far as Irina’s concern with Cousin Edward eavesdropping.

And yet, to think in her peasant’s tongue will only arouse suspicion. She did promise Tanechka that she’ll not antagonise the perpetual misanthrope Edward.

Well, she needs a new plan.

* * *

The hunt begins and ends in a prolonged silence. They’re miles away from Volterra—vast forests encompassing the terrain that nearly separates that little quaint town in Tuscany from others.

Irina Markova keeps her distance at twenty paces behind him, sticks both her hands into her jeans’ pockets. Anthracite black irises peering at pinkish oleander.

There’s only two of them, visible to each other.

Demetri’s lean body melts into the background, Felix’s hulking form is missing from the forest, Santiago is nowhere to be seen against the dense woods and a trace of Phoebe’s scent lingers in the air—her presence invisible.

Only several voices linger on his mind. It’s enough for him to focus on the hunt.

Yet, Irina’s soundless voice still rings in his head—a distraction.

She’s humming to Enya. Oblivious to his glares.

Even as he drives his teeth into the bovine animal’s thick neck and burrows his teeth until accidental snap of bone echoes, sucking bland blood and it dribbles down his chin—Irina will not cease her humming.

Still Enya.

They return to Volterra, all golden-eyed and satiated thirst. She slips away from Edward, into the labyrinthine tunnels. The last he’d seen of her is wavy blonde hair swishing left and right.

He puts on his grey cloak around his neck. Shakes off the dust flecks from his shoulders, he takes a step into the waiting room.

Afton greets him, mirrors a teenaged smile, “Are you ready, Edward?”

“Yes, where next?”

“There’s a coven in Faroe Islands,” Afton offers, skinny fingers hand Edward a leather briefcase, “Aro wants us to monitor them.”

* * *

Their hunts are clockwork arrangements, brokered by a man who’d seen three thousand years of worth of sunrises and sunsets.

They fall into a pattern made up of silent treatments and ignorant bliss. Edward, twenty steps ahead and the first to draw blood from any animal they hunted down. Irina and her ink-stained fingers plucking nearby flowers.

When she doesn’t echo the New Age music playing on loop in Marcus’ study, Irina dwells on the memories locked in her mind.

Sometimes, Irina thinks of Tanechka’s yellow manuscripts sprawled wide open, falling apart. Neat written Cyrillic script that sang odes to years long gone and cannot be recaptured.

Or Katya’s mounting physic journals and theorems aimed at all things electrical—none of which are even in English—gathering cobwebs. Silverfish eating the pages away, several books destroyed once a decade.

On the rare moments, she recalls Sasha. Sasha, alabaster skin and crimson eyes, offered a hand to the newborn Irina and a promise of a new life unrestricted by fragility called the human body. Her daughters, one frowned and the other friendly, all bore striking resemblances to Sasha—and Irina.

And when she’s brave enough to brace the pang of guilt and yearning, she brings forth Laurent and his flirtatious grin. His eagerness to learn their alternative lifestyle. His lips touching hers—passionately, that it feels like the first time Irina kissed a man.

Usually, it’s Enya she’s belting out at the top of her imaginary lungs. Edward wrinkles his nose in distaste.

It’s either from Enya—or Irina’s constant (internal) criticism of the Cullens’ faults. Edward never really did see the dangers his coven was guilty of committing. Blinded by the kaleidoscopic glasses fashioned out from Carlisle’s flawed convictions.

In all the honesty Irina has, she blames the so-called patriarch of clan for allowing his disciples to run along and do as they please—consequences be damned.

* * *

Edward Masen will never admit to accidentally singing few phrases to Enya’s ‘Only If’.

It’s when Irina stopped singing Enya, he’s grateful to be done with all the inconsistencies of pitch in Irina’s tune.

The same time he started seeing them. Daffodils for hair, garnet eyes shifting to golden, and three sisters bathed in their lovers’ blood and limbs.

It’s a reel, playing in his head, of surreal kodiak moments. A mix between tender sisterly love under the Siberian winter suns and frenzy feeding in midnight Russian moons.

Laughter rang melodically—first, Tanya’s hearty purr and Kate’s stealth snicker—all tangled up in silk bedsheets and king-reigned bed. Irina curled up next to the Tsar’s third prince, batted eyelashes at her sisters.

The reel swirled into a portrait with new additions. Eleazar and Carmen, silky coal hair and vestiges of olive skin beneath their winter clothes and boots, embracing the sisters like he’s finally home after years of endless wandering.

Extravagance that was once a fixture to the Cullens’ custom living is absent. They lived simply in a house built by sparkling delicate hands. Each room made to use, not a room for show.

They appeared—the sisters—as lovely wraiths wrapped in a cloak of mystery and a hint of seductive charms plying on their lips, at the wee hours of drying liquor-licking tongues. Before the crack of dawn’s first light, they disappeared into the frosted wilderness and they’re forgotten by the men they bedded.  

It’s almost … _normal_. Happy. Peaceful. A stark contrast against 16 th century traditional values Carlisle had favoured so much.

Everything went bleak dark. His eyes travelled to Irina on instinct. Her thoughts replaced the images he’d seen, angry raging in ancient Russian tongue.

Edward looked away, let her have her peace. If he could blush, bright red embarrassment would have tinted his cheeks. But he doesn’t, casted his eyes on the dirt clinging to his boots instead.

It was the first time he’d seen anger marring her cool features. But Irina held her tongue in check and they continued with their hunt.

The next time they meet, Tuscany’s sun is low on the horizon and the orange and blue swath the skies.

Irina isn’t shy to retaliate the invasion of her private thoughts, striking Edward with painful hypocrisy plaguing the Cullens.

For all his praises of his all seeing, all hearing mind, there’s none that exploit his flaws and colour them bright orange—not until his fatal arrogance forced him to connect with Aro.

Now, the guards have shielded their minds from him. He hears and sees everything he hated with all his heart, there’s no end to it.

It’s not the same with unimaginative humans. It’s all the horrors of vampirism magnified a million times through depravity he finds sickening.

And he can’t switch his ever-prying mind off.

Enya seemed like a godsend then.

* * *

She has to give the boy some credit. He lasted weeks. Six weeks, to be exact.

“We would have never fallen into this predicament if you allowed us to explain ourselves,” Edward barks, haunted black eyes glowering at Irina.

“Is it, Edward? Your daughter might not be an immortal child. But she’s a danger to us all.”

Edward petulantly retorts, “She’s just a child.”

“She’s not a child and you know that. She’s an adult, hiding behind the exterior of a child.”

“She’s _my_ daughter.”

“She is. But she’s unnatural,” says Irina, anger rising and skimming across her skin, “she’s neither one of us, nor is she one of them. The Volturi would acquire the knowledge eventually. The result will remained as it was.  Nothing would changed.”

“No laws were broken,” his voice fractures like cracked porcelain figurine, “we upheld every single law.”

Irina laughs, hollow and madness unravelling, “Have you seen yourselves in the mirror? I bet there aren’t any mirrors in all those fancy houses you bought and made your domain.”

Edward shifts uncomfortably, slender arms folded across his chest.

Perhaps she’s too consumed with fury clouding her eyes, constricting her pain-laced throat, she soldiers on and lays it for him, no flower or sugar to mince her words, “I don’t need to list out all or any inconspicuous ways you Cullens stood out. You lived in their shoes. You made no effort to deflect the suspicions. Attract attention like Hollywood royalty. Lived in big houses. Drove fancy cars. You guys lived in a small town, for fucking sake. To be among humans and simply do not connect to your human friends like normal people.”

“Jasper needed to be exposed to human,” Edward replies, weakly.

There’s inherently different between formulating an argument when the mind reader never say a word and the words leaving her mouth as sound waves. To hear her voice for once and air out her grievances is cathartic.

“And you decided a school filled with little children was the best place? All of you, especially Carlisle, are out of your _fucking_ minds,” she fires back, “ _Excuses_. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say your coven’s foundation built on pile of excuses. You preached about the sacredness of human lives, but did nothing to stop the senseless killings in Seattle. You only went to great lengths to keep Bella safe and others were unfortunate casualties.”

“I never really blame you for Laurent’s death. Laurent sealed his own death sentence when he did that favour for Victoria. Bella was just the fire that lit the wick to the ticking time bomb that is your family,” Irina finishes, disappointed with the denial thickening around his throat and in his eyes.

This time, she strikes the animal down first. Then calls for the other guards, “Can we leave first? I rather wait at the gates.”

“What about him?” Felix questions, accuses a finger at Edward, “He hasn’t feed yet.”

“You only need Phoebe, Demetri and a muscle,” Irina chimes in, “Either Felix or Santiago could outrun me. So you only need one to babysit me.”

Demetri looks at his fellow colleagues and a smile graces his face, “She has a point. By the reports we had, Edward is the fastest among the Cullens.”

Phoebe turns a piqued gaze at Edward, “He is?”

“Was. Seeing how all of them are _dead_ dead,” Felix corrects misconception.

Irina nods, “Carlisle wrote about his accomplishments in one of his letters to Tanya.”

Phoebe snorts, eyes Edward in skepticism. “He thinks he’s what? The Flash?”

“Guess so,” Demetri says, a cheeky smile curing on his lips.

Behind her, Felix and Santiago plays a rousing game of rock, paper and scissors until Santiago throws out his fist to Felix’s scissors.

Demetri claps his hands, lips curling into a grin, “That settles it. Santiago would accompany you,” and he turns to stare at the Brazilian, “would you be kind to make sure Miss Markova reaches Master Marcus’ study?”

Santiago nods and glides to Irina’s side. The expression of his betrays a hint of curving smile as Demetri replies, “Thank you, Santiago.”

Edward doesn’t wait for any more words—he rushes after a wild boar moving in the distance. Demetri, Phoebe and Felix chase after the bronze-haired man.

“After you,” Santiago offers, waiting for Irina.

“Let’s go.”

* * *

The next hunt, he’s alone. Of course, the guards are nearby. The usual—minus Santiago.

He’s still alone as the subsequent hunts pass by like stray leaves on rippling water.  

Phoebe’s mind is a temple of continuos fascination with all things witchcraft and other mysteries of the supernatural world. She’s young—younger than Edward, but three decades older than Bella. There are glimpses of her manipulating weather before an attack to a rebellious coven in East Baltic Sea. Offers no insight to why Irina isn’t here with him.

Felix’s gigantic frame and easy smiles hide tangled webs of rocket science, colourful space, daring sports and dinosaur fossils. Too loud for Edward’s liking.

Demetri’s head is neatly compartmentalised. The traces of his previous preys in one part of his brain. The others are cornucopia of pop culture from anything that was ‘in’ since the 60s, particularly Star Trek and Lord of the Rings—he could quote any lines from Tolkien’s works.

Edward didn’t ask. They didn’t answer. And so, he hunts alone. Week after week.

It’s strange. To be the only one hunting for animals. It feels like he’s a child again. A newborn under Carlisle’s watchful preacher eyes. Only they’re not Carlisle, and their eyes are perpetually red. Edward Masen isn’t a newborn.  

At least, when there’s Irina twenty steps behind, it felt like he wasn’t alone. Being the last Cullen doesn’t hurt as much.

* * *

Volterra could be stifling at times. In the mornings, Irina sits on a stool and her fingers curl around a dip pen. Waits for Marcus to begin his diction of his eternal love.

His chambers are flooded by little sun rays bouncing against the shelves-lined walls. Marcus takes a seat on his lover’s throne—parts acknowledging nod and claret eyes set on the wall.

She only leaves after the ink-stone dries and Marcus tells her that they’ll continue tomorrow. By then, Irina extinguishes the seventh candle’s flame and returns to her room.

Colour Irina surprise, when Laura interrupted them—a rarity since Laura doesn’t interfere with Irina’s affairs with Marcus.

Laura stepped out from the shadows, nose wrinkling in displeasure. She cleared her throat; two pairs of eyes, golden and garnet, staring inquisitively at the brunette guard.

It’s Marcus who broke the silence, “Yes, Laura?”

“Master, Irina has guests,” Laura answered, voice all chirpy like a singing robin.

“Very well, then. You’re dismissed.”

Irina’s head swirled to Marcus in a swift’s turn, “Really? Just like that?”

Marcus hummed monotonously and a ghost of a smile sits on the edge of his lips, “You haven’t seen any of your received guests since you arrived five years ago. If my brothers object to you seeing your guests, tell them to see me personally.”

Irina bowed awkwardly like she’s a peasant granted amnesty by the king. “T-thank you, Master, for your generosity.”

Irina left with Laura leading her to the antechamber where all vampires gather before seeking audiences with the triumvirate. The door that they went through, closed once Irina stepped into the chamber and walls replaced the door.

“Wait here, there’ll be another guard that brings your guests,” Laura paused, a smirk formed on her pretty youthful face, “I like you.”

“You do? You don’t even know me.”

“Yeah, I don’t. Outside of the creating immortal child crime your creator committed, there isn’t much about you. But I’m liking you more, now that your family keeps things fresh in Volterra.”

Irina sighed and her hand automatically went over her face, “What did my sisters do?”

She loves her sisters. She really do. But she’s also had witnessed some colossally common-sense defying activities Tanechka and Katya committed, either together or apart.

“You’ll see. I don’t want to spoil the surprise,” Laura waved goodbye and marched off back to Marcus’ study.

The antechamber is hexagonal in shape. Each corner of the walls, where baroque paintings arranged neatly. A wooden bench with flowers and vines carved onto its headboard. Another door sprung from the ground, parting to a familiar face.

Dressed in ripped jeans, beige cardigan with a blank tank top—and a pretty feline smile that resembled Sasha the most. Her daffodil hair bundled into a loose bun.

“Look at you. All grown up. Who knew you’d be the one among all of us to have a steady job in in this place,” her sister stated, her Russian accent more pronounced as she batted eyelashes and gestured a wave around the hall.

“Tanechka?” slipped out from her mouth. There’s no use in blinking, but she appreciated the placebo effect of human reassurance.

Tanechka leaned against the marbled door frame, and she singsonged, “We brought you a gift.”

“A gift,” Irina replied, flat and slightly amused. Her feet neither move her forward nor backward.

Tanechka continued, “Yeah, we thought you’d missed home so much. So we arranged a little something.”

Katya emerged from behind the door, tugging the reigns around a male elk’s muscular neck into the hall. The elk’s soiled hooves tapped against the floor and its majestic horns nearly filling the door.

“H-how did you manage to get this out from Alaska?” Irina questioned, she ran a fingertip across its horns. The elk smelt like the Denali summer and _home_.

Tanechka answered, “It took me five years working my charms on an agreement between the Tuscan farms to try Alaskan fauna as alternative meat.”

Since her stay in Volterra, Irina took the laws like it’s the only thing that keeps her venom in her veins flowing. To say she flinched at the mere thought of attracting any human eyes was an understatement. Her tawny eyes widen, yanking Katya into the hall and shutting the door behind her with a force enough to crush metal.

“Did you have to _parade_ the elk around the town? What about drawing attention? We’re in Italy, for goodness sake.”

Tanechka held her laughter in, her smirk broadening. “Firstly, we didn’t drag the elk in the town area. Secondly, one of the guards wanted to pet and play with an elk—you just don’t tell her you’ll be eating it. Louis said Renata was upset the last time Carlisle tried to spread the word of animal feeding. Carlisle avoided her for a good portion of his stay here.”

Irina eyed the elk both in awe and her throat slowly throbbing with rising pain and thirst.

“Who’s Louis?”

“He’s the one I had dealings and negotiations before we could visit you,” Tanechka paused, “which reminds me I have to inform him to take the elk.”

She dialled a number and spoke English to Louis. Moments later, another guard—reminded her of Demetri’s build and dark shoulder length hair—came and took the elk away.

“Carmen gave you this,” Katya produced a tablet from her sling bag, “She wanted to come along. Eleazar freaked out when he heard we’re visiting you. He’s still convinced that the Volturi has some hidden grudge against him.”

“What’s inside here?”

Irina slipped the tablet into her pockets. Her privilege does extend to modern concession, but the internet line in Volterra was appallingly slow. She couldn’t even stream any video. Let alone finished her favourite TV series—she recalled it was cancelled in its fifth season, she only seen the first season.

Katya shrugged her shoulders, “Dunno. She said it was for you and it’s a secret.”

Irina studied her sister’s appearance. Having a mate hadn’t change her a bit. Katya wore what Katya felt was comfortable—usually meant combat boots, khaki pants, a musical-themed t-shirt and leather jacket—and effortlessly made the combination look sexier on her.

They once talked about being mated and the conventions of wearing rings as a show of their affections. But Irina’s love affair with Laurent barely begun and short lived. Katya, on the other hand, had hers for about a decade now. She wasn’t one for sappy affections.

“What about that dishevelled guy? He’s your mate, isn’t he?”

Katya rolled her eyes, all worn down by her mate’s antics—Tanechka might have mentioned a few of his grandiose speeches against anything English.

“Garrett doesn’t do well with any government, be it vampire or human establishment. But Garrett won’t admit he has a certain fondness for the Queen.”

She wasn’t sure why she found it funny. But they burst into laughter anyway.

“How’s his adjustment to our diet going?” Irina managed to choke out, once their laughing came to an end.

Tanechka simply shook her curls, pinched the bridge of her nose, “Ask her.”

Katya crossed her arms over her chest, picking stray linen on her shirt. “He’s doing okay, I guess. He’s still new and young.”

Tanechka shot a dirty look at Katya and bristled, “That was ten years ago. He’s not new. He hates it. He feeds in other district.”

Irina arched her brow at Katya, “You’re not tempted at all by the human blood he consumed?”

Katya grinned a mischievous fox’s smirk, “It’s intoxicating to smell, but I rather stick to the animal diet. It’s _our_ thing. And I get gloating rights. It’s not all the time you could drink animal blood without looking like you scoop dirt and swallow it.”

“So, where’s he?”

Katya answered, “He’s back at home, keeping Eleazar company and Carmen,” and waved a hand to bat an imaginary fly, “Enough about that, let’s talk about you.”

“We missed you, Irinushka.”

Irina hugged her sisters. Inhaled the Alaskan winter frost from Tanechka’s honey hair. Katya’s warrior hand ruffled through her hair like she’s the farmer’s daughter from Kievan-Rus.

Her sisters were here. Sasha’s daughters reunited once again. It almost felt like home again.

She’s whole once more.

* * *

It’s a bizarre feeling to have immense relief flooding his body when his eyes meet another pair of golden eyes. Even if she made it clear, she finds them a family of virtuous hypocrisy.

Edward refrains from staring at her too long. Instead he matches her movements. They stroll side by side, without sparing each other a glance.

Somewhere between the first leaf they see dropping under the autumn’s air and the chill seeping into their skin, Edward catches that soothing hymn of Celtic music.

“That’s not Enya,” he blurts out. All the animosity he cultivated in the ashes of his coven, eludes him like dusts on a rainy day.

Her gaze flies to his face, scrutinising him and her thoughts drift into his mind like ocean waves on a calm sea.

There’s an unhealthy amount of silence between them. It must be only seconds, but time ticks at snail’s pace as he waits for a reply that might never come. 

Embarrassment gnawing his insides, like that time he brought Bella home and his family utterly failed to act ‘normal’. And if he’s a human, he’d feel ill at the burgeoning fool he made himself.

“It’s not.”

Another beat of deafening stillness crawls towards the finish line. Irina finally graces him with a glance of indifference.

“It’s actually an old folk song. My people sang it during the village’s celebration of a good harvest.”

“You still have memories of your time before your creator made you into us?”

Irina’s head bobs up and down, sending honey curls bouncing. “I do. Well, fragments of it. Here and there. It’s the songs I remembered the most. I think I wanted to be a songstress as a child. But my voice isn’t made for singing.”

Without any further thinking, Edward nods, “I undoubtedly agree to that assessment.”

Irina lifts a brow ever so slightly at him, “Sure you do. You’re a music aficionado. Tanya said so.”

“Indeed, I am.”

Edward isn’t a king of poetic dialogue, that fact is much clearer to him now. And a thought flirts with doubt. A conviction he held close to his heart, shaken by the hurricane of second guessing.

He’s far from romantic but Bella painted him the Romeo to her Juliet. A projection of childish fantasy by a bored teenager wishing for eternal youth and wealth—Bella was too eager to join their ranks of the cursed immortals.

“Good.”

“Fine.”

They’re back to nursing the comfortable silence. It isn’t long before they’re sinking their fangs into two scarred bears across from each other. The steady beats of old heart dies down to silence.

He wipes the blood dribbling down his chin. Reapply a layer of foundation that melted away as he sprinted on a small river stream to get his bear. He tosses a glance over his shoulder, searching for Irina—checking to see if she’s still here.

Blood smeared against her cheek, Irina tucks a loose strand behind her ears. Hoists the carcass over her shoulders and set it down on thick shrubs. She painstakingly covers it with twigs and fallen leaves.

A thought crossed his mind—in English and her voice—musing about his unfavourable opinion of her.

“I don’t hate you,” he mumbles to himself.

Irina throws her head back, chuckling at him. “When cows fly with wings, then I’ll believe you.”

“I meant, I _did_ hate you in the beginning,” Edward sheepishly amends.

“I got the impression you did,” she answers dryly, “when you tried to bite my _head_ off.”

“You’re right. My picturesque family is just picturesque. They’re shallow, hypocrites and—”

“You don’t have to explain, Cullen,” Irina cuts his words with ease, “We’re fallible like humans are, perhaps even more so.”

Irina draws her attention away from him. Casting a golden-eyed stare at the marigold skies, her fingers brushing against tiny yellow rattle’s petals that rises up to her knees.

“I don’t hate you or your family, as individuals. I just think that all of you didn’t want to admit we’re a flawed species and you were wrapped up in this ideal that we were noble when we don’t eat humans. It’s not as simple as that.”

Edward shuffles his dirt-clung boots against the flattened grassy bed, “So what does this makes us?”

They were once close enough to refer each other’s coven as cousins. The lines were severed when the Cullens chose Edward’s Bella over Irina’s Laurent.

Irina shrugs, peering into her soil-stained fingernails. “I wouldn’t call us friends. Acquaintances, yes. We never really talked when you came to visit.”

“How rather unfortunate that is true.”

She soaks her hands into the stream, clenching and relaxing her fingers. “Baby steps, Ede.”

“Ede?”

Irina’s full lips curling into a smirk, slaps her wet hands against her thighs and gathers to her feet. “Kate’s nickname for you. The Hungarian equivalent to the diminutive of Edward.”

“I like it.” And he’s smiling. Genuine curving of his lips. None of his fangs bared and poised to attack her jugular.

“It’s about damn time they made up,” Phoebe mouths, appearing into their sight and she hangs upside down from a nearby tree branch.

“Ah, I was hoping for a fight,” Felix sighs. He sits legs crossed over a boulder, his hoodie shielding him from the setting sun.

Demetri steps out from the elongating shadows of an oak tree, “No fight. Phoebe wins the bet, fair and square.”

“Pay up, bitches.” Phoebe unbends her knees, lands on the ground with the grace of a cat.

Everyone pulls out their credit cards from their wallets as Phoebe darts to each man and collect their cards.

“Another time,” Santiago tries to console, but bearing no comforting expressions, and his voice rarely deep for a man of his hulking stature, “Renata’s taken by the elks. It won’t be long before she’ll cut Irina’s name from her crafts list.” 

Irina asks, incredulous shining in her tone along with amusement, “You were betting on us?”

Demetri flashes a charming flirty smile, hands inside his jeans’ pocket, “Nothing serious, of course. Just harmless fun to pass the time. It can be tediously boring to anticipate melodrama from our dear Edward.”

“Can we all return to Volterra now?” Felix asks, impatience marks his features. His chin set on his upturned palms.

A twinkle of mischief glinting in Phoebe’s scarlet eyes, “Race you back to Volterra, Eddie.”

“I don’t think—”

“You’re afraid of a little challenge?”

Tugging the ends of her pale pink lips is a taunting smirk. She always believed that she could outrun him—Edward is actually curious for once to test out her hypothesis.

The words roll out from his clumsy lips before he could formulate a dignified answer, “If you lose, you’d give half of the credit cards to Irina. So she can buy herself a laptop.”

“Deal—”

Phoebe whizzes past the green forest. Edward follows suit. The world becomes a blur at that moment.  

Phoebe is not Alice. Demetri may share similar built and height to Jasper, they’re far different as their hair colour goes. Felix’s not the evil counterpart of Emmett. Santiago _is_ Santiago. Irina deserves more than hate he spewed at her.

He can’t change the past. This is the present. He’s not going to waste his second chance at life.

And yes, he might have thrown out a laugh or two, as he narrowly avoids falling into a ditch. 

It feels okay to step out from the Cullens’ mantle once in a while.

* * *

Fin. 


End file.
